by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XLII
JOSEPH AND HIS BURDEN--BUCK'S HEAD
A wall bounded the site of Casterbridge Union-house, except along aportion of the end. Here a high gable stood prominent, and it wascovered like the front with a mat of ivy. In this gable was nowindow, chimney, ornament, or protuberance of any kind. The singlefeature appertaining to it, beyond the expanse of dark green leaves,was a small door.
The situation of the door was peculiar. The sill was three or fourfeet above the ground, and for a moment one was at a loss for anexplanation of this exceptional altitude, till ruts immediatelybeneath suggested that the door was used solely for the passage ofarticles and persons to and from the level of a vehicle standing onthe outside. Upon the whole, the door seemed to advertise itself asa species of Traitor's Gate translated to another sphere. That entryand exit hereby was only at rare intervals became apparent on notingthat tufts of grass were allowed to flourish undisturbed in thechinks of the sill.
As the clock over the South-street Alms-house pointed to five minutesto three, a blue spring waggon, picked out with red, and containingboughs and flowers, passed the end of the street, and up towards thisside of the building. Whilst the chimes were yet stammering out ashattered form of "Malbrook," Joseph Poorgrass rang the bell, andreceived directions to back his waggon against the high door underthe gable. The door then opened, and a plain elm coffin was slowlythrust forth, and laid by two men in fustian along the middle of thevehicle.
One of the men then stepped up beside it, took from his pocket a lumpof chalk, and wrote upon the cover the name and a few other words ina large scrawling hand. (We believe that they do these things moretenderly now, and provide a plate.) He covered the whole with ablack cloth, threadbare, but decent, the tail-board of the waggonwas returned to its place, one of the men handed a certificate ofregistry to Poorgrass, and both entered the door, closing it behindthem. Their connection with her, short as it had been, was over forever.
Joseph then placed the flowers as enjoined, and the evergreensaround the flowers, till it was difficult to divine what the waggoncontained; he smacked his whip, and the rather pleasing funeral carcrept down the hill, and along the road to Weatherbury.
The afternoon drew on apace, and, looking to the right towards thesea as he walked beside the horse, Poorgrass saw strange clouds andscrolls of mist rolling over the long ridges which girt the landscapein that quarter. They came in yet greater volumes, and indolentlycrept across the intervening valleys, and around the withered paperyflags of the moor and river brinks. Then their dank spongy formsclosed in upon the sky. It was a sudden overgrowth of atmosphericfungi which had their roots in the neighbouring sea, and by the timethat horse, man, and corpse entered Yalbury Great Wood, these silentworkings of an invisible hand had reached them, and they werecompletely enveloped, this being the first arrival of the autumnfogs, and the first fog of the series.
The air was as an eye suddenly struck blind. The waggon and its loadrolled no longer on the horizontal division between clearness andopacity, but were imbedded in an elastic body of a monotonous pallorthroughout. There was no perceptible motion in the air, not avisible drop of water fell upon a leaf of the beeches, birches,and firs composing the wood on either side. The trees stood in anattitude of intentness, as if they waited longingly for a wind tocome and rock them. A startling quiet overhung all surroundingthings--so completely, that the crunching of the waggon-wheelswas as a great noise, and small rustles, which had never obtaineda hearing except by night, were distinctly individualized.
Joseph Poorgrass looked round upon his sad burden as it loomedfaintly through the flowering laurustinus, then at the unfathomablegloom amid the high trees on each hand, indistinct, shadowless, andspectre-like in their monochrome of grey. He felt anything butcheerful, and wished he had the company even of a child or dog.Stopping the horse, he listened. Not a footstep or wheel was audibleanywhere around, and the dead silence was broken only by a heavyparticle falling from a tree through the evergreens and alightingwith a smart rap upon the coffin of poor Fanny. The fog had by thistime saturated the trees, and this was the first dropping of waterfrom the overbrimming leaves. The hollow echo of its fall remindedthe waggoner painfully of the grim Leveller. Then hard by came downanother drop, then two or three. Presently there was a continualtapping of these heavy drops upon the dead leaves, the road, andthe travellers. The nearer boughs were beaded with the mist to thegreyness of aged men, and the rusty-red leaves of the beeches werehung with similar drops, like diamonds on auburn hair.
At the roadside hamlet called Roy-Town, just beyond this wood,was the old inn Buck's Head. It was about a mile and a half fromWeatherbury, and in the meridian times of stage-coach travellinghad been the place where many coaches changed and kept their relaysof horses. All the old stabling was now pulled down, and littleremained besides the habitable inn itself, which, standing a littleway back from the road, signified its existence to people far up anddown the highway by a sign hanging from the horizontal bough of anelm on the opposite side of the way.
Travellers--for the variety _tourist_ had hardly developed into adistinct species at this date--sometimes said in passing, when theycast their eyes up to the sign-bearing tree, that artists were fondof representing the signboard hanging thus, but that they themselveshad never before noticed so perfect an instance in actual workingorder. It was near this tree that the waggon was standing into whichGabriel Oak crept on his first journey to Weatherbury; but, owing tothe darkness, the sign and the inn had been unobserved.
The manners of the inn were of the old-established type. Indeed,in the minds of its frequenters they existed as unalterable formulae:_e.g._--
Rap with the bottom of your pint for more liquor. For tobacco, shout. In calling for the girl in waiting, say, "Maid!" Ditto for the landlady, "Old Soul!" etc., etc.
It was a relief to Joseph's heart when the friendly signboard came inview, and, stopping his horse immediately beneath it, he proceeded tofulfil an intention made a long time before. His spirits were oozingout of him quite. He turned the horse's head to the green bank, andentered the hostel for a mug of ale.
Going down into the kitchen of the inn, the floor of which was astep below the passage, which in its turn was a step below theroad outside, what should Joseph see to gladden his eyes but twocopper-coloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. JanCoggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the two most appreciativethroats in the neighbourhood, within the pale of respectability, werenow sitting face to face over a three-legged circular table, havingan iron rim to keep cups and pots from being accidentally elbowedoff; they might have been said to resemble the setting sun and thefull moon shining _vis-a-vis_ across the globe.
"Why, 'tis neighbour Poorgrass!" said Mark Clark. "I'm sure yourface don't praise your mistress's table, Joseph."
"I've had a very pale companion for the last four miles," saidJoseph, indulging in a shudder toned down by resignation. "And tospeak the truth, 'twas beginning to tell upon me. I assure ye, Iha'n't seed the colour of victuals or drink since breakfast timethis morning, and that was no more than a dew-bit afield."
"Then drink, Joseph, and don't restrain yourself!" said Coggan,handing him a hooped mug three-quarters full.
Joseph drank for a moderately long time, then for a longer time,saying, as he lowered the jug, "'Tis pretty drinking--very prettydrinking, and is more than cheerful on my melancholy errand, so tospeak it."
"True, drink is a pleasant delight," said Jan, as one who repeated atruism so familiar to his brain that he hardly noticed its passageover his tongue; and, lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his headgradually backwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soulmight not be diverted for one instant from its bliss by irrelevantsurroundings.
"Well, I must be on again," said Poorgrass. "Not but that I shouldlike another nip with ye; but the parish might lose confidence in meif I was seed here."
"Where be ye trading o't to to-day, then,
Joseph?"
"Back to Weatherbury. I've got poor little Fanny Robin in my waggonoutside, and I must be at the churchyard gates at a quarter to fivewith her."
"Ay--I've heard of it. And so she's nailed up in parish boards afterall, and nobody to pay the bell shilling and the grave half-crown."
"The parish pays the grave half-crown, but not the bell shilling,because the bell's a luxery: but 'a can hardly do without the grave,poor body. However, I expect our mistress will pay all."
"A pretty maid as ever I see! But what's yer hurry, Joseph? Thepore woman's dead, and you can't bring her to life, and you may aswell sit down comfortable, and finish another with us."
"I don't mind taking just the least thimbleful ye can dream of morewith ye, sonnies. But only a few minutes, because 'tis as 'tis."
"Of course, you'll have another drop. A man's twice the manafterwards. You feel so warm and glorious, and you whop and slap atyour work without any trouble, and everything goes on like sticksa-breaking. Too much liquor is bad, and leads us to that horned manin the smoky house; but after all, many people haven't the gift ofenjoying a wet, and since we be highly favoured with a power thatway, we should make the most o't."
"True," said Mark Clark. "'Tis a talent the Lord has mercifullybestowed upon us, and we ought not to neglect it. But, what with theparsons and clerks and school-people and serious tea-parties, themerry old ways of good life have gone to the dogs--upon my carcase,they have!"
"Well, really, I must be onward again now," said Joseph.
"Now, now, Joseph; nonsense! The poor woman is dead, isn't she, andwhat's your hurry?"
"Well, I hope Providence won't be in a way with me for my doings,"said Joseph, again sitting down. "I've been troubled with weakmoments lately, 'tis true. I've been drinky once this month already,and I did not go to church a-Sunday, and I dropped a curse or twoyesterday; so I don't want to go too far for my safety. Your nextworld is your next world, and not to be squandered offhand."
"I believe ye to be a chapelmember, Joseph. That I do."
"Oh, no, no! I don't go so far as that."
"For my part," said Coggan, "I'm staunch Church of England."
"Ay, and faith, so be I," said Mark Clark.
"I won't say much for myself; I don't wish to," Coggan continued,with that tendency to talk on principles which is characteristic ofthe barley-corn. "But I've never changed a single doctrine: I'vestuck like a plaster to the old faith I was born in. Yes; there'sthis to be said for the Church, a man can belong to the Church andbide in his cheerful old inn, and never trouble or worry his mindabout doctrines at all. But to be a meetinger, you must go to chapelin all winds and weathers, and make yerself as frantic as a skit.Not but that chapel members be clever chaps enough in their way.They can lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads, all abouttheir families and shipwrecks in the newspaper."
"They can--they can," said Mark Clark, with corroborative feeling;"but we Churchmen, you see, must have it all printed aforehand, or,dang it all, we should no more know what to say to a great gafferlike the Lord than babes unborn."
"Chapelfolk be more hand-in-glove with them above than we," saidJoseph, thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Coggan. "We know very well that if anybody do go toheaven, they will. They've worked hard for it, and they deserve tohave it, such as 'tis. I bain't such a fool as to pretend that wewho stick to the Church have the same chance as they, because weknow we have not. But I hate a feller who'll change his old ancientdoctrines for the sake of getting to heaven. I'd as soon turnking's-evidence for the few pounds you get. Why, neighbours, whenevery one of my taties were frosted, our Parson Thirdly were the manwho gave me a sack for seed, though he hardly had one for his ownuse, and no money to buy 'em. If it hadn't been for him, I shouldn'thae had a tatie to put in my garden. D'ye think I'd turn after that?No, I'll stick to my side; and if we be in the wrong, so be it: I'llfall with the fallen!"
"Well said--very well said," observed Joseph.--"However, folks, Imust be moving now: upon my life I must. Pa'son Thirdly will bewaiting at the church gates, and there's the woman a-biding outsidein the waggon."
"Joseph Poorgrass, don't be so miserable! Pa'son Thirdly won't mind.He's a generous man; he's found me in tracts for years, and I'veconsumed a good many in the course of a long and shady life; but he'snever been the man to cry out at the expense. Sit down."
The longer Joseph Poorgrass remained, the less his spirit wastroubled by the duties which devolved upon him this afternoon.The minutes glided by uncounted, until the evening shades beganperceptibly to deepen, and the eyes of the three were but sparklingpoints on the surface of darkness. Coggan's repeater struck sixfrom his pocket in the usual still small tones.
At that moment hasty steps were heard in the entry, and the dooropened to admit the figure of Gabriel Oak, followed by the maid ofthe inn bearing a candle. He stared sternly at the one lengthyand two round faces of the sitters, which confronted him with theexpressions of a fiddle and a couple of warming-pans. JosephPoorgrass blinked, and shrank several inches into the background.
"Upon my soul, I'm ashamed of you; 'tis disgraceful, Joseph,disgraceful!" said Gabriel, indignantly. "Coggan, you call yourselfa man, and don't know better than this."
Coggan looked up indefinitely at Oak, one or other of his eyesoccasionally opening and closing of its own accord, as if it were nota member, but a dozy individual with a distinct personality.
"Don't take on so, shepherd!" said Mark Clark, looking reproachfullyat the candle, which appeared to possess special features of interestfor his eyes.
"Nobody can hurt a dead woman," at length said Coggan, with theprecision of a machine. "All that could be done for her isdone--she's beyond us: and why should a man put himself in a tearinghurry for lifeless clay that can neither feel nor see, and don't knowwhat you do with her at all? If she'd been alive, I would have beenthe first to help her. If she now wanted victuals and drink, I'd payfor it, money down. But she's dead, and no speed of ours will bringher to life. The woman's past us--time spent upon her is throwedaway: why should we hurry to do what's not required? Drink,shepherd, and be friends, for to-morrow we may be like her."
"We may," added Mark Clark, emphatically, at once drinking himself,to run no further risk of losing his chance by the event alludedto, Jan meanwhile merging his additional thoughts of to-morrow in asong:--
To-mor-row, to-mor-row! And while peace and plen-ty I find at my board, With a heart free from sick-ness and sor-row, With my friends will I share what to-day may af-ford, And let them spread the ta-ble to-mor-row. To-mor-row', to-mor--
"Do hold thy horning, Jan!" said Oak; and turning upon Poorgrass, "asfor you, Joseph, who do your wicked deeds in such confoundedly holyways, you are as drunk as you can stand."
"No, Shepherd Oak, no! Listen to reason, shepherd. All that's thematter with me is the affliction called a multiplying eye, and that'show it is I look double to you--I mean, you look double to me."
"A multiplying eye is a very bad thing," said Mark Clark.
"It always comes on when I have been in a public-house a littletime," said Joseph Poorgrass, meekly. "Yes; I see two of everysort, as if I were some holy man living in the times of King Noahand entering into the ark.... Y-y-y-yes," he added, becoming muchaffected by the picture of himself as a person thrown away, andshedding tears; "I feel too good for England: I ought to have livedin Genesis by rights, like the other men of sacrifice, and then Ishouldn't have b-b-been called a d-d-drunkard in such a way!"
"I wish you'd show yourself a man of spirit, and not sit whiningthere!"
"Show myself a man of spirit? ... Ah, well! let me take the name ofdrunkard humbly--let me be a man of contrite knees--let it be! Iknow that I always do say 'Please God' afore I do anything, from mygetting up to my going down of the same, and I be willing to take asmuch disgrace as there is in that holy act. Hah, yes! ... But nota man of s
pirit? Have I ever allowed the toe of pride to be liftedagainst my hinder parts without groaning manfully that I questionthe right to do so? I inquire that query boldly?"
"We can't say that you have, Hero Poorgrass," admitted Jan.
"Never have I allowed such treatment to pass unquestioned! Yet theshepherd says in the face of that rich testimony that I be not a manof spirit! Well, let it pass by, and death is a kind friend!"
Gabriel, seeing that neither of the three was in a fit state to takecharge of the waggon for the remainder of the journey, made no reply,but, closing the door again upon them, went across to where thevehicle stood, now getting indistinct in the fog and gloom of thismildewy time. He pulled the horse's head from the large patch ofturf it had eaten bare, readjusted the boughs over the coffin, anddrove along through the unwholesome night.
It had gradually become rumoured in the village that the body to bebrought and buried that day was all that was left of the unfortunateFanny Robin who had followed the Eleventh from Casterbridge throughMelchester and onwards. But, thanks to Boldwood's reticenceand Oak's generosity, the lover she had followed had never beenindividualized as Troy. Gabriel hoped that the whole truth of thematter might not be published till at any rate the girl had been inher grave for a few days, when the interposing barriers of earthand time, and a sense that the events had been somewhat shut intooblivion, would deaden the sting that revelation and invidiousremark would have for Bathsheba just now.
By the time that Gabriel reached the old manor-house, her residence,which lay in his way to the church, it was quite dark. A man camefrom the gate and said through the fog, which hung between them likeblown flour--
"Is that Poorgrass with the corpse?"
Gabriel recognized the voice as that of the parson.
"The corpse is here, sir," said Gabriel.
"I have just been to inquire of Mrs. Troy if she could tell me thereason of the delay. I am afraid it is too late now for the funeralto be performed with proper decency. Have you the registrar'scertificate?"
"No," said Gabriel. "I expect Poorgrass has that; and he's at theBuck's Head. I forgot to ask him for it."
"Then that settles the matter. We'll put off the funeral tillto-morrow morning. The body may be brought on to the church, orit may be left here at the farm and fetched by the bearers in themorning. They waited more than an hour, and have now gone home."
Gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latter a most objectionableplan, notwithstanding that Fanny had been an inmate of the farm-housefor several years in the lifetime of Bathsheba's uncle. Visionsof several unhappy contingencies which might arise from this delayflitted before him. But his will was not law, and he went indoorsto inquire of his mistress what were her wishes on the subject. Hefound her in an unusual mood: her eyes as she looked up to him weresuspicious and perplexed as with some antecedent thought. Troyhad not yet returned. At first Bathsheba assented with a mien ofindifference to his proposition that they should go on to the churchat once with their burden; but immediately afterwards, followingGabriel to the gate, she swerved to the extreme of solicitousness onFanny's account, and desired that the girl might be brought into thehouse. Oak argued upon the convenience of leaving her in the waggon,just as she lay now, with her flowers and green leaves about her,merely wheeling the vehicle into the coach-house till the morning,but to no purpose. "It is unkind and unchristian," she said, "toleave the poor thing in a coach-house all night."
"Very well, then," said the parson. "And I will arrange that thefuneral shall take place early to-morrow. Perhaps Mrs. Troy isright in feeling that we cannot treat a dead fellow-creature toothoughtfully. We must remember that though she may have erredgrievously in leaving her home, she is still our sister: and it isto be believed that God's uncovenanted mercies are extended towardsher, and that she is a member of the flock of Christ."
The parson's words spread into the heavy air with a sad yetunperturbed cadence, and Gabriel shed an honest tear. Bathshebaseemed unmoved. Mr. Thirdly then left them, and Gabriel lighteda lantern. Fetching three other men to assist him, they bore theunconscious truant indoors, placing the coffin on two benches in themiddle of a little sitting-room next the hall, as Bathsheba directed.
Every one except Gabriel Oak then left the room. He stillindecisively lingered beside the body. He was deeply troubled at thewretchedly ironical aspect that circumstances were putting on withregard to Troy's wife, and at his own powerlessness to counteractthem. In spite of his careful manoeuvering all this day, the veryworst event that could in any way have happened in connection withthe burial had happened now. Oak imagined a terrible discoveryresulting from this afternoon's work that might cast over Bathsheba'slife a shade which the interposition of many lapsing years might butindifferently lighten, and which nothing at all might altogetherremove.
Suddenly, as in a last attempt to save Bathsheba from, at any rate,immediate anguish, he looked again, as he had looked before, at thechalk writing upon the coffin-lid. The scrawl was this simple one,"FANNY ROBIN AND CHILD." Gabriel took his handkerchief and carefullyrubbed out the two latter words, leaving visible the inscription"FANNY ROBIN" only. He then left the room, and went out quietly bythe front door.